Diary of a Single Wedding Planner (Tales Behind the Veils Book 1) (4 page)

Wednesday, October 9th

So tonight was blind date night. Melanie was way more into it than I was. She must have texted me twenty times while I was getting ready, and then when I didn’t text her back quickly enough, she called.

“Are you excited?” Mel asked.

“Umm, I’d say more nervous than excited.”

“Why? This is a good thing.” She sounded so disappointed I almost wanted to pretend to be excited just to make her happy.

“You know how I feel about blind dates, Mel,” I said.

“I do, but Christopher’s a nice guy. He’s not going to show up barefooted, I promise.”

I laughed at Mel and cringed at the memory she referred to. I was probably sixteen at the time, and my mother’s best friend had insisted I go out with her nephew. Doris described Sammy as a “long, tall, good-lookin’ drink of water.” She would drawl out
long
and
tall
into pretty much two-syllable words and then rush through
good-lookin’ drink of water
like she was running out of oxygen.

He was tall alright, but evidently Doris and I have vastly differing opinions on what constitutes good-lookin’. Of course, it didn’t help that he showed up barefoot to take me out to dinner. I opened the door in my brand-new dress to greet a scrawny giant of a boy wearing a rebel-flag tank top, a pair of cut-off denim shorts, and no shoes.

He smiled down at me, revealing a large gap of two to three teeth missing on the bottom and a couple of top teeth ready to jump ship at any moment.

I decided right then and there I’d need to see someone up close and in person before I ever let anyone set me up on a date. Melanie had a lot of faith in Paul’s opinion, though, and I had a lot of faith in Melanie. So much so that I even agreed to let Christopher pick me up at my house and drive me on the date.

It started out wonderful enough. He arrived on time with a gorgeous bouquet. I was relieved to see Paul actually did have good taste in men. Christopher was tall and muscular, with dark, wavy, tousled brown hair and eyes the color of dark honey. He flashed a gorgeous white smile and kissed me on the cheek as he handed me the flowers.

The shiny new Porsche in my driveway was another nice surprise. I’ve always been a sucker for a nice ride. This one was black, sleek, and plush. I don’t consider myself a real material girl, but I think a handsome, rich guy in an expensive car is not a bad way to start a date.

The afternoon’s heavy rains had subsided, but water still filled the potholes along the road. Christopher swerved to miss one and ended up splashing into the water running along the curb. All conversation stopped. His mood changed immediately. He stopped at the next parking lot entrance, got out of the car without a word, and grabbed a white towel from behind the driver’s seat. After drying every single drop of water from the right front fender, he got back in and continued our drive.

After the third time, I asked if he’d recently washed his car.

“No,” he replied. “I don’t want street water ruining my finish.”

Now I don’t know a lot about cars, but I don’t think they could charge as much as they do for a Porsche if splashing in a puddle would ruin it. My admiration for the car quickly soured as I sat and waited for him to dry it off every few minutes.

My annoyance lifted somewhat when we pulled into the most sought-after restaurant in Orlando. Reservations were usually booked up months in advance, but Christopher whipped right into valet like he owned the place. I felt a little like Cinderella at the ball when the valet opened the car door and my handsome prince-for-the-night extended his hand to escort me up the steep stairs at the entrance.

The hostess greeted Christopher by name and with a fond smile. She led us to a small table for two set against a curve in the back windows. I gazed out at the incredible view of the lake, wondering if this was his regular table and how often he brought dates here.

He smiled and thanked the hostess as she replaced my white linen napkin with a black one. I glanced around at the other diners and hoped my little black dress was up to par.

After a few questions about what I liked and disliked, Christopher asked if he could order for me. I was hesitant to say yes at first, especially since I hadn’t even seen the menu, but I decided what the hell. I’ll go with it.

I had no need to worry. He started with an amazing antipasto platter and a bottle of wine, followed by soup so good I wanted to sop my bread in it. I didn’t, but I sure wanted to. (You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take all the country out of the girl.)

Christopher behaved as a perfect gentleman throughout the entire meal. Asking me questions, actually listening to the answers, and being extremely attentive to my comfort and needs. I was thinking I could definitely get used to that kind of treatment.

The wine coaxed me into a warm and fuzzy haze as soft jazz played in the background and Christopher wooed me with tales of his exotic travel escapades. It seemed there was nowhere this man had not been. Frolicking with penguins in Antarctica, camping with the aborigine in Australia, backpacking across Europe, and sleeping under the stars on safari in Africa. I felt like I was in an episode on the Travel Channel. Definitely a far cry from that sixteen-year-old country girl and barefoot Sammy.

As we shared a decadent slice of chocolate-lava cake for dessert, I felt certain Paul and Melanie had stumbled upon the most wonderful man on the planet. I was mesmerized. I could certainly overlook an obsession with water droplets on fenders.

He casually reached his hand across the table with palm outstretched. I placed my hand in his with a giddy schoolgirl giggle. I couldn’t tell if my stomach flipping was from butterflies or a result of too much rich food and a third glass of wine. It didn’t matter. I was having a fantastic time. Truly enjoying his company. I didn’t want the night to end.

Evidently, neither did he. As he stroked the back of my hand with his fingers and sent slight shivers down my spine, he leaned toward me above the low candle in the center of the table and whispered, “I want to bathe you.”

Thinking the wine had messed up my hearing, I cocked my head to one side and said, “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I want to bathe you. I want to put you in a tub of warm, soapy suds, and bathe you from head to toe.”

I shook my head slightly to clear the wine fuzz and try to understand what my gorgeous, perfect date was telling me. I pulled my hand from his and leaned closer.

“I’m sorry, it sounded like you said you wanted to
bathe
me?”

He nodded in what I am sure he meant as a seductive manner, licking his bottom lip ever so slowly.

I shuddered, but not in the giggly, shivers-down-my-spine way I’d felt a few minutes before.

He leaned toward me and spoke low, his voice husky with desire. “I want to take you back to your apartment, undress you, pick you up in my arms and put you in the tub to bathe every last inch of you.”

He blew a kiss in the air as he purred out the last part. I cracked up laughing. Hard. Loud. Like other people around us staring at me loud.

Christopher looked both surprised and embarrassed. He sat back in his chair and took a sip of wine as he looked at the patrons around us then back to me.

I tried to stop laughing, but it was damned good wine. The harder I fought for composure, the more it eluded me.

I mean, never in my entire life has anyone told me they wanted to bathe me. Is this a thing? A fetish? To bathe people? I’ve never heard of it. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good bubble bath as much as the next girl. But on the first date?

Had I somehow given him the impression I was up for a bath? I stopped laughing and dabbed my running mascara with the black napkin.

“Excuse me,” I said, leaning toward him across the table “but what exactly did I do or say tonight to make you think I was the kind of girl you could take home and
bathe
on the first date?”

“What do you mean?” he answered. “I find you beautiful, and I want to bathe you. It’s a sensual thing.”

“I’m sure it is. But I don’t want to be bathed by someone I barely know. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to the ladies room.”

I gathered my shawl and my purse and tried to walk as dignified as possible, although the remnants of the wine fuzz gave me a slight sway I couldn’t control.

I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and wondered how the evening had plummeted so abruptly. Maybe I overreacted. Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, I could overlook his other water obsession, so why not this?

Perhaps it was that he expected it so quickly. Sure, I wanted him to find me attractive. I had certainly hoped he would kiss me good night. I might have even invited him in for a few minutes when he dropped me off. But I wanted him to desire spending time with me. To desire getting to know me. To find out who I am and what makes me tick. Share who he is and what makes him tick. Then, perhaps if our ticks lined up and our interests matched, maybe just maybe after we’d held hands and swapped spit—cuddled and petted a bit, trusted and shared—I
might
consider letting him bathe me.

Bathing seems so, I don’t know, personal? So intimate. Even more so than sex in some way. I would have to feel completely and totally comfortable with someone to lay there and be bathed. Definitely not a first date event for me.

When I returned to the table, Christopher had paid the check and stood waiting for me. We left the restaurant in silence, and after only two stops to dry the car, he pulled into my driveway and cut the engine.

He looked at me intently, resting his left arm across the steering wheel and reaching over to put his right hand on my knee. I didn’t move it, but I didn’t necessarily want it there either.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I find you attractive, and I wanted to see more of you.”

“Evidently so,” I said, shifting my leg out from under his hand.

“I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, yes, I did want to see more of you, but I meant it like I wanted to go out with you again.”

I nodded and smiled, unsure how to respond. I looked out the window and away from him.

“So,” he said, “can I come inside for a while? No bath, just talking?”

I turned back to him, wondering if I was an insane, unreasonable person making too much out of this. There were so many wonderful things about him, so much I liked. Here was a handsome, wealthy, interesting man being straightforward and upfront with me about what he wanted. Hadn’t I asked for that? Hadn’t I wished for a straight shooter? So why couldn’t I get past him offering to bathe me?

I didn’t know. But I couldn’t. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I answered.

“Okay. Well, can I see you again?” he asked.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea either,” I answered. Part of me felt guilty for turning the dude down. He’d been a perfect gentleman right up until he became Mr. Bubble. Even after, really. Polite as ever. Not pushing the issue or getting offended.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, I bought you a gift. I intended to give it to you after your bath, but since that won’t be happening, I’d like to go ahead and give it to you now.”

He reached into the tight space behind my seat and pulled out an unmistakable pink-striped Victoria’s Secret bag.

My eyes widened in shock as I sank back against the window away from the bag.

He reached inside and pulled out a sheer, white mesh thong with a bright pink satin rose prominently placed right above the G-string in the back.

“I got this for you today. I’ve been picturing you in it all night long. Paul showed me a picture of you, so I got the large to make sure it would fit. I can’t stop imagining how fine your deliciously round derriere would look in this. Especially after a nice, hot bath.”

“Okay, good night. I would say thank you for a lovely evening, but I’m a bit creeped out right now. Take care, and please don’t bother to call.”

I hauled my deliciously round derriere out of the super-clean Porsche, mentally noting I probably wouldn’t want to ride in a car so low to the ground all the time anyway.

As I came around the front of the car he yelled, “Here!”

I shouldn’t have turned, but I did, instinctively reaching to catch the pink-striped bag before it hit me square in the face.

“The gift was for you,” he said. “I want you to have it. If I don’t get to see you again, at least I can picture you wearing it. If you change your mind, you have my number.”

Mr. Bubble pulled away, carefully avoiding the water on the side of my street. Between the car and the bath, this guy has some serious issues with cleanliness.

So yeah. I don’t do blind dates. Or baths. I think I’ll be a shower-only girl from here on out.

Thursday, October 10th

I debated over how much to tell Melanie today. She and Paul both wanted so badly for last night to go well. It was downright awkward to tell her I didn’t like their dream date because he wanted to bathe me and dress me in a thong he bought me before we ever met. A
large
thong, I might add. (Never mind it was the correct size. That’s not the point.)

The details ended up spewing out as we stood by the coffee machine. After she got over her initial shock and we laughed a bit, she apologized profusely and said she might murder Paul.

“It’s not his fault, Mel. I’m pretty sure Christopher didn’t tell him about his fetish for bubble baths, and I don’t think he called Paul to get a size before making the thong purchase.”

“Are you kidding me?” Mel asked. “We’ve been married almost fifteen years. The man has no clue what size panties
I
wear. He doesn’t have a clue what to get you, trust me!”

“Well, chalk it up to another dating adventure and a new pair of panties I doubt I’ll ever wear,” I said.

“Hell, I’d wear ’em,” Mel said. “He’s not gonna know either way. Why turn down Victoria’s Secret?”

I laughed with Mel about it, but I couldn’t shake feeling a little depressed about the whole thing. I tried to go into it without expecting much, but then it seemed so good. I think I got my hopes up. I thought for a little bit that I had finally found someone to be excited about again. It’s been a long time since I felt that way.

Not that I haven’t had dates here and there that went well, but I don’t remember really feeling excited to be with someone since Dwayne. Well, in the beginning with Dwayne, that is. All I felt in the end was a stabbing pain in my chest.

We’d known each other our whole lives, but it wasn’t until our senior year that Cupid struck. It was the first time I’d ever been in love, complete with all the giddy, giggly, silly-ass things we say and do at that age. I wore his class ring on my index finger with a Dr. Scholl’s corn pad stuffed beneath it so it wouldn’t fall off. I drew hearts with our initials inside them all over notebooks, book covers, and chalkboards.

I’m embarrassed to say how many times I wrote my name as Tyler Davis, practicing so many variations of a capital D that I could have been a calligrapher if I only needed to do that one letter. I even scribbled out
Mrs. Dwayne Howard Davis
a few times on scraps of paper when no one was looking.

I thought I was moving up in the alphabet. Warren gets called last for everything. Davis was near the top. I chuckled out loud at the memory of my young priorities. Once you get out of school, the world is no longer structured in alphabetical order. But at the time, I thought I was scoring a great coup in upward mobility.

We were together three years. My last year of high school and my first two—well, my
only
two
—
years of college. By the end of our first year, I had already built the white-picket fence in my head
and
named the babies I thought we’d raise together.

The ringing of the office phone sucked me back into present day, the nostalgia of puppy love still wafting through my brain.

It was Rob, one of our grooms for March. He seemed upset but polite as he explained he and his bride, Megan, would not be getting married after all. He wanted to cancel the wedding contract and any vendors already booked, including the photographer, venue, caterer and florist. I extended my sympathies and told him we’d take care of the cancellations.

Laura said she’d put the file aside to sit for a day or so. Sometimes couples make decisions in the heat of an argument or a moment of doubt that change after they make up. Better to hold off canceling until they’re sure the wedding’s not happening than to stress out trying to rebook vendors after releasing them.

So later this afternoon, Megan called. She was freaking out, asking Laura if everything had already been canceled. Laura assured her nothing had been done yet.

But then she asked if she could change the groom’s name on the contract instead of cancelling. She wanted everything she had booked—the venue, photographer, florist, and caterer. All the details arranged for her and Rob—flowers, menu, cake, linens. She wanted the same wedding but with a different guy. Seems she went back home for a wedding shower and ran into her high school sweetheart. Old flames die hard, I guess.

The whole thing hit really close to home. Partly because I’d been thinking about my old flame, my first love, and partly because I thought I knew a teensy bit about what Rob was feeling.

“Poor guy, huh?” Laura said.

“Yep,” I answered, still mulling over my own memories.

“Well, at least he knows now. Better than after he married her, right?”

“I guess,” I said. “Doesn’t make it any easier, though. My boyfriend dumped me and got married a month later. At the time, I wasn’t thinking he had done me any favors.”

“He got married a month later?” Laura lifted her eyebrows almost to her hairline as she sank bank in her chair. “Whoa. Was he already seeing her while you two were together?”

“I think so. I certainly didn’t know about it. In fact, I thought he was going to propose. He said we needed to talk, and I started practicing my acceptance speech in my head. I was even cursing myself for not having my nails painted to look pretty for the ring. That wasn’t what he had in mind, though.”

“What did he say? He just told you he was marrying someone else?” Laura had leaned forward, resting her chin in her hands as she propped her elbows on her desk.

“No! I got the ‘I think we need time apart’ speech. The ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ and my personal favorite, the ‘I feel like we have so much life ahead of us that we can’t really be tied down and make a commitment to one person’ speech.” Funny how I could remember how I felt that night as though it happened yesterday.

The air had left my lungs when he spoke, and I felt like I’d been punched in the gut. Like the world spun an extra loop or tilted too far to one side or something. Nauseous and dizzy.

“One day he was my whole world. The next day he wasn’t even on my planet.” I could feel my throat tighten as Laura shook her head in commiseration. “I was a mess for weeks. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t drink. Couldn’t sleep. I lost fifteen pounds in two weeks. I probably could have fit into a size six for the first time in my life
if
I’d been able to drag myself to a store to shop.”

“But wait, how did you find out he was getting married?” Laura asked.

“His grandmother told me,” I said. “Mama sent me to the store to buy milk. Probably to get me out of the house more than anything. I ran into his grandma in the grocery store and was stupid enough to ask how he was doing. I mean, I thought he might have been taking it hard, too.”

Mrs. Dolores had given me a huge hug, squeezing me tight and telling me how much she missed me, which ripped my heart anew. I had thought she would be my grandma, too. That his family would be my family.

“She’d always been real sweet to me,” I told Laura. “I hate that she had to be the one to break the news. She looked so confused when I asked how he was doing, and then she said she thought somebody would have told me already.”

I had no idea what she was going to say, but I remember wanting to put my hands over my ears because I was sure it was nothing I wanted to know.

I could still hear her voice in my head, sweet and apologetic as she’d leaned in close and patted my arm. “Honey, Dwayne got married. Last weekend. He’s on his honeymoon in New Orleans right now.”

I felt as though the blood had stopped rushing through my body for a moment. I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. I thought I might pass out right there in the potato chips aisle.

“It had only been one month, Laura. One month since he gave me his speech about being too young to commit and having our whole lives ahead of us. I thought he just had cold feet and needed time to figure things out. Three years together and one month after he broke up with me, he got married. I guess he figured it out, didn’t he?”

I felt the anger wash over me again. You’d think after five years I’d be totally over it and it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. But he was my first love. I gave him my heart, my dreams, my virginity. In return, I got betrayed. And it still hurts. I think maybe it always will.

Laura was staring at me with an intense expression.

“People in my hometown probably still talk about me running out of that store like I was on fire,” I said. “I have no idea who I bumped into on the way out. I just knew I had to get out.”

“So is that when you moved away from home?” she asked, her voice a quiet whisper.

“Yep. The very next day. I packed my clothes and kept running. I quit college, quit my job, left my mother standing on the porch crying, and I ran.”

“Why Orlando? Did you know people here?” Laura asked.

“Nope. Didn’t know a soul. We came to the Magic Kingdom the summer before I turned thirteen. The summer before my dad died. I had happy memories here. I couldn’t think of any place I’d rather be.”

“Wow,” Laura said. “I had wondered what made you move away from your family and come down here on your own. I had no idea, honey. I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“Me too.” I smiled, trying to lighten the conversation. I suddenly felt self-conscious that I had just poured my life story out to my boss. “But I’m okay now, right? It’s all good.”

“I guess. It obviously still bothers you,” Laura said. “Have you talked to him since then? Did you see him after that?”

“No, I haven’t. He’s still right there in that little town working at his dad’s lumber yard. Right where he swore he never wanted to be. Two kids, I think. Maybe three by now. I don’t really keep up with him.”

“Is that why you don’t go home much?” Laura asked.

“Yeah, I guess so. It’s like I associate home with bad memories, so I don’t want to go back, you know?” I stood up and cleared my throat, ready to end my impromptu therapy session. “I’m sorry I got into all that. I guess he’s just been on my mind the last couple of days for some reason, and then with Megan doing what she did . . .”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize. I would like to think we could talk and share things together without needing apologies. I’m glad to have a little glimpse or a little insight. And I, for one, think he made a dreadful mistake. But his loss was my gain, and I’m so happy you’re here with us.”

I smiled and nodded back at her, feeling the tightening in my throat I always feel when Laura is sweet to me. She and Lillian both make me want to cry. Just for completely different reasons.